


You carry out only what you bring in

by leiascully



Series: New York AU [17]
Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 23:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows there's nothing left to do but let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You carry out only what you bring in

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: [NY AU](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/tag/au%3A%20new%20york) after [I know when a good thing is gone](http://leiascully.livejournal.com/746552.html)  
> Concrit: Welcome  
> A/N: Thank you to [**miabicicletta**](http://miabicicletta.livejournal.com/) for introducing me to "Stardust Universe" and to [**kag523**](http://kag523.livejournal.com/) for her enthusiasm and her [incredibly gorgeous art](http://kag523.tumblr.com/post/4152284740/leiascullys-epic-new-york-au-is-about-to-be). Bonus thanks to the man behind the man himself for promoting Ducati and being super hot while doing it. Dedicated to the memory of [**amidala_thrace**](http://amidala-thrace.livejournal.com/), who loved Sam too.  
>  Disclaimer: _Battlestar Galactica_ and all related characters belong to Ronald Moore, NBC Universal, Sci-Fi Channel, and Sky One. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Sam feels like he's wound around with bubble wrap. His arms and legs are stiff, like they're bound too close to move. He feels cushioned from the world, like he's seeing it through several layers of plastic that aren't quite clear, but every now and again, something jabs him hard enough to pop a bubble or two. Then he's all sealed up again in his plastic prison.

He calls their lawyer and lets her know the situation. She says some words of shock and comfort that he ignores. He books a hotel. As soon as she tells him she doesn't need anything from him, he'll leave town. He goes to the motorcycle place and buys another Ducati. This one isn't blue. He should get a hog, something designed for long trips, but he doesn't want the stability or the chance of carrying anything with him. The touring bike with the boxy storage on the side suits him fine. Enough space for some extra clothes, a small just-in-case tent, his Dopp kit, and a couple of protein bars is more than enough. He buys it in black. The summer-blue bike he got for Kara seems like something he saw years ago.

The lawyer calls him back and fawns over him. "Give Kara whatever she wants," he tells her. "I don't give a damn."

It's sad. For more lives than he can really remember, he's been following Kara, loving her, wanting her, trying to hold onto her, losing her to her own self-destructive impulses or to Lee. He knows that this is the right decision. He knows there's nothing left to do but let go. It still feels as if he's wrenched away a part of him, and the grief wrapped so tightly around him is the only thing keeping him from staggering when he walks or flooding the sidewalk with his heart's blood.

He thought it would be easier this time. At least losing her to Lee should feel more inevitable than booze and her own darkness or a stupid accident or an awful disease or the simple fact that there are billions of people on this planet and they're just two of them. Or three of them, since Lee's tangled up in it too. Or the thousands of faces he keeps looking for in the crowds. He'd love to find Dee. He'd love to buy her a drink, hear how her life is going, give her a hug. She has suffered too long for sins that are not her own. He hopes she is not suffering still.

Suffering is what he has left. This time, he's taking nothing with him. He will let the wind on the road scour him clean. He will be pure math, vectors of force, momentum, acceleration and inertia. He will melt into the landscape, overshadowed by the glory of the vast horizon.

Sam shows up to the signing of the papers in his leathers. It's gauche, maybe, but he's already gone. It's the only way he can cope, despite the years he's had to prepare. He signs his name, gouging the pen into the paper, and flips the folder closed. Kara's coming in as he's on his way out, and he can only be grateful they didn't have to share the elevator. His heart thuds in his chest, just once, a sharp pain. There's something near compassion in her eyes, and a light around her that takes his breath away.

"Sammy," she says, her voice reaching out though her hands are still.

"Just be happy," he tells her. "Otherwise, there wasn't any point to any of it."

She nods. For a moment he thinks she'll say something else. He turns away.

"Sam?" she says and he stops in his tracks, turns back to listen to her, can't help turning back, can't help answering her call. "You too."

He takes the stairs down, hoping the clatter of his feet on the concrete will jolt the ache out of his bones. He's out the door and has his leg swung over the bike before he can even take a real breath again. He fits the helmet over his head like a portable isolation chamber. It's so loud inside his head. The only escape from his thoughts is the open road. He guns the bike and slips into the traffic pattern, cutting it almost too close.

"That's enough," he says to himself, his voice both echo-y and muffled by the faceplate. "That's enough."

He drives until the scenery blurs around him, and checks into a cheap motel in an anonymous town. He barely has the energy to shower off - he sweated all day, baking in his leather and denim but unwilling even after that to shed his protection and let the wind tear him to shreds. Life goes on. He chokes down a couple of fast food burgers and passes out almost as soon as he's found a terrible movie to not watch. He needs the noise. It reminds him he's not as alone as he feels.

The days settle into a rhythm. He rousts himself out of bed, finds some greasy spoon where they'll sell him a cup of coffee and a breakfast special, then he checks the bike over, makes sure the tires have plenty of air and the fluids are topped up, and hits the road. He's stopped caring what roads he takes. He just goes from highway to highway generally in the right direction. His helmet's wired to hook up to the jack in his phone, but instead he flips from channel to channel on the radio, trying to drown out his thoughts. When he's starving, he finds the fastest food he can stomach. Once or twice somebody recognizes him and he has to smile as best he can while he signs his name to a napkin. When he's tired enough he wants to just drive off the road, he stops at the first hotel he finds and tries not to pass out in the shower. He has a map of the US and he picks a road at night before he falls asleep.

Sometimes he ends up going north for a whole day, completely out of his way. Sometimes he sticks to major highways, but it's nicer to take the small ones. Any time an exit calls itself "scenic", he takes it. He's not due back in Phoenix yet. He has time to meander, time to try to forget and heal.

The curves on the backroads are gorgeous. The dappled light through the leaves makes him think of waking up next to Kara on their honeymoon through Europe and watching shadows sift across her skin. His mind replays highlights of their best moments; the staticky signal from the radio sounds like her mischievous murmur until he clicks it through onto a twangy gospel station. Missing her is hell. Thinking of that voice whispering in Lee's ear makes him so hollow inside he wants to steer his bike down a ravine to jolt those images out of his head. His fingers flex at the memory of the way his hands fit around her. He has to concentrate to keep his attention on the road.

Kara Thrace, heartstopper. Kara Thrace, who every lovesick love song is written about. Kara Thrace, who makes the sun rise in the morning. Kara Thrace and her special destiny, Lee Adama.

And Sam Anders, fighting for his life again.

It's hard to know who he is without Kara. It's hard to know what he should do. He has let her define his life. All these years he has been trying to find a way to make her happy, to end this awful cycle of loving and losing and leaving. Holding on to her never worked. Having stepped away, he is purposeless again. He should feel free. Instead, he feels nothing.

He stops somewhere in the Midwest to find a laundromat. He buys a swimsuit and a t-shirt promoting the local high school mascot to wear so he can strip off in his hotel room and cram everything from his saddlebags into a washer. He's breaking a cardinal rule of his own by riding in the cheap flipflops he bought, but his socks are balled up with the rest of his clothes and it's a short ride. The air feels strange on his bare calves and arms. It's nice to do laundry. It reminds him of college, for one thing, and it's so human, so normal. Yes, he's cut adrift, newly divorced, crowded out of his own love story again, but at least he can take the small comfort of clean clothes. At least he's not that far gone. The pain in his heart is still sharp, but at least the sensation of being wrapped in plastic is easing. He takes a deep breath of detergent and fabric softener.

While he's waiting for his clothes to dry, he wanders over to a restaurant for the first salad he's had since he left New York. It's the first thing on this trip he's really tasted. When he wanders out, refreshed by food that's actually fresh and some good locally-brewed root beer, there's a leggy blonde inspecting his bike. He cocks his head to get a better look, but even before he gets there, he's sure. In another life, he would have called her Six.

"This yours?" she asks.

"Sure is," he says. She looks him up and down from where's she squatting looking at the workings of his bike. The t-shirt he bought is too tight on him, the stylized mustang prancing across his chest as he breathes, and he knows he looks ridiculous in the loud trunks, which completely fail to hide that he gets more turned on the longer she stares at him. She stands slowly, pressing her hands against her thighs to lever herself up.

"It's a nice machine," she says, and he thinks for a moment, _oh gods, she knows_. But she smiles just as sunny as anything, like she's never known the apocalypse much less helped cause it.

"Thanks," he says, mouth dry.

She tips her head to one side. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I used to play a little college basketball," he says, the easy way out. "Might have seen me on tv. Sam Anders."

"I'm Sarah," she says, sauntering closer. "You in town long?"

"Depends on what kind of attractions I can find," he says, and it's been a hell of a long time since he actually flirted with a woman for a reason, but it seems to be working. Maybe she's taking pity on him.

"I think you should have dinner with me," she says. She's all gold and cream and long lean legs in blue jeans, just like he remembers, dangerous in a whole different way. He doesn't think she's been destroying any planets lately, but there's no doubt she breaks hearts. "I could show you the attractions. Maybe you could take me for a ride. There's a nice swimming hole a couple miles out of town. You're already dressed for it."

"Yeah, sure," he says, trying to be cool. He could drown in those blue eyes and never come up. It wouldn't be the first lifetime he's spent trying to forget Kara in someone else's arms.

She flashes him a heartbreaking smile and pats his bike in a proprietary way. "Come find me when you're ready for dinner. I work in the garage over there." She jerks her thumb over her shoulder. For the first time, he sees that her clothes are smudged with greasy fingerprints, and she's got smears of it across her forehead and collarbones too. There are two perfect handprints on her thighs from when she stood up. Oddly enough, it makes her look even more attractive, the way a few clouds make the sunshine seem ever brighter.

"Ah," he says. "That's why you were checking out the undercarriage."

"With equipment like that, why not highlight it?" she says, and gives his stupid loud shorts a significant look.

"That's how you know it's quality," he jokes. "They let it all hang out."

"Exactly," she says, treating him to that smile again. "My break's about over, but I'll see you."

"See you," he echoes, and has the feeling she knows he's watching the swing of her ass as she walks away. He leans on the bike for a moment, careful not to topple it. So that's how it works when he lets himself talk to women who aren't Kara Thrace. Sarah's refreshingly straightforward. That's good. He can't handle complicated right now, but he could use a reminder of why life should go on.

He's glad beyond reason right now he never thought of the eight models they crafted as children. It was clear from the start they weren't making anything they could mentor. He swears the Sixes and the Fives came out of the tub smarter than he ever was, and Seven could play songs he hadn't even dreamed of. He was never a parent. He was the tool of a greater force.

He wonders if she has a twin somewhere. He hopes she doesn't. He's met her before, in other lives, seen her relive Natalie's horrors or Caprica's or Gina's or any of her anonymous sister models. He's glad he doesn't have to pity or save her in this life. She looks happy, confident, competent. He may have never felt paternal, but he did feel guilty, responsible for their awful fates. This time around, she's doing better than he is. It's one burden off his aching shoulders.

He actually whistles as he goes to check on his laundry. He can't carry a tune, and half the time it peters off into nothing, but it's a start.

Sam schleps his laundry back to his hotel room and folds it up as best he can. He's got nothing to wear but jeans and his boots, but at least he won't be embarrassing himself in swim trunks that were somehow both baggy and revealing. He picks out a nicer t-shirt and the only button-down he brought with him, an old beat up chambray shirt that Kara gave him not that long after they got married. It's flecked with paint here and there, but it's what he's got. At least the paint's all the same color, so it almost looks like it's on purpose. He takes a long shower, makes sure he's shaved as close as his electric razor will get. It's strange to look at his own face in the mirror. His cheeks are more hollow than usual. He looks tired and rough, even after all the grooming. There are thousands of years of history in his eyes.

"Pull it together," he tells his reflection. "One last time around. None of this is happening again."

His reflection looks unconvinced, but Sam ruffles some gel through his hair and ignores his own skepticism. He's going on an honest-to-gods date. Funny how around Sarah he starts thinking of the gods again. She always was touched with a divine spark. He reaches for the cologne in his Dopp kit and splashes some on. He might as well improve his chances of feeling that spark too. As an afterthought, he rolls the stupid swim trunks in a couple of the hotel's towels.

He meets her at the garage, his hair already crushed by the helmet. As little as he likes his life at the moment, he can't stop clinging to it or his old good habits. At least he's not wearing his jacket, so the breeze cooled him off. He wrestles the helmet off his head as he steadies the bike with his feet. She comes out wiping her hands on a rag and grabs a helmet of her own off a work table.

"I didn't know if you'd show," she says, sauntering up to him as she jams the rag into her back pocket.

"Are you kidding?" he asks. "How many people have ever stood you up?"

"There's a first time for everything," she says. "Mind dropping by my place? I'd like to slip into something a little less oily and my car's in the shop. Ironic, I know."

"No problem," he says. She crams her helmet on, braces her hands on his shoulders, and climbs onto the back of his bike. Clearly she's done this before - he wouldn't be surprised if she's got a bike of her own somewhere. He likes the way she fits against him, her thighs snug against the outsides of his legs. Her place isn't too far away, a little house with a yard that seems full of big dogs. There turn out to be only two; they greet him enthusiastically until she hauls them away, scolding them lovingly.

"I won't be but a minute," she says over her shoulder, heading to what seems to be her bedroom, and he's polite enough not to try to stare after her. He glances at the pictures on her wall - she seems to have sisters but no twin, to his relief - and then settles himself on the couch, rolling his helmet from hand to hand. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. Anybody wanting him can wait a few more days.

Sarah comes back surprisingly quickly. She's changed into a clean pair of jeans and a smudgeless tank top with a little jacket thrown over it, and she's holding a slender pocketbook. She looks like a model, all out of place in this small town, until she bats her lashes at him like the girl next door and then laughs, utterly human. He laughs along with her.

"Let's go tear up the town," she says.

"Lead on," he tells her.

The summer evening seems to go on and on, golden light and a gentle breeze. Sarah presses herself against him, her voice murmuring in his ear through the helmets' radios. They get what are called "loose meat sandwiches" and one beer each at some local hole in the wall. The fries are surprisingly good, and so is the sandwich, despite its name. Then they walk over to get snowcones.

"Tiger's blood is a flavor?" Sam says skeptically when Sarah orders, but she lifts her spoon to his mouth and he has to admit it's pretty good. "I guess I'm having all kinds of new experiences here."

"It's an undiscovered treasure," she tells him, and accepts a bite of his tame piña colada-flavored slush.

"Well, I'm glad I discovered it," he says.

"Hah," she says. "More like you're glad I discovered _you_ and decided to take you under my wing."

"Is that where you're taking me?" he teases.

"Wait and see," she says, a promise in her eyes.

They sit at the little wooden table by the snowcone stand and eat. Five or six people come by and say hello to Sarah. Sam just nods and smiles. He's not in the mood to sign autographs. He's never really understood why anyone would want his anyway. Sarah chats easily between bites, but she seems to be relieved when they're walking back to his bike. She clambers on behind him and they speed off into the sunset per her directions. A few miles out of town, she tells him to turn into a grove, and beyond the grove is a lazy river, and in the crook of the river is her swimming hole, with its rope swing and its rough-built dam holding the water there. He pulls out the towels and his trunks and she claps and skins off her jacket and tank top to reveal a teal bikini top.

"You came prepared," he says.

"Go change," she tells him as she unbuttons her jeans. "I won't look. Maybe. I mean, they don't leave much to the imagination."

"Ouch," he says. "Leave me a little dignity, would you?"

"Sounds uncomfortable," she says, wriggling out of her jeans. She runs barefoot across the grass and grabs the rope, swinging out into the middle of the pool before she lets go, splashing into the water. He thinks about changing behind the bike but just ends up shucking out of his clothes and dragging on the trunks as fast as he can. There doesn't seem to be much point to modesty. He splashes his way into the water and makes his way toward Sarah. The pool is surprisingly deep toward the middle. He floats, up to his shoulders in the water, trying to brush the bottom with his toes as he watches Sarah swim back and forth.

The sun going down gleams through the trees, and the warm light on her face makes her look like a painting. _This can't be real_ , he thinks, _this can't be my life_. She ducks under the water and he's alone again. But it feels real enough when she touches his hip under the water, floating her way up his body until she can wrap her hand around his head and kiss him.

"This is actually happening," he murmurs when she floats away for a moment.

"Of course it is, Sam," she mocks him. "I'm as real as it gets."

He reaches for her under the water, sliding an arm around her ribs. She kisses him again, ardent, her mouth much warmer than the cooling air. There's no way she could help noticing his erection now, not with her body pressed so closely against his. They slide sideways in the water, only breaking the kiss when they're about to submerge.

"Good thing you brought those towels," she says.

"What?" he asks, dumb with wanting her. She wriggles away from him and makes her way to the bank, where she spreads the towels out on the soft springy grass and sprawls out waiting for him.

"By the way, there's a condom in the change pocket in my wallet," she tells him.

"You really did come prepared," he says, splashing out of the water, feeling ungraceful and selfconscious, his arousal more evident than ever now that the trunks are clinging.

"I like making plans," she says, her smile lighting up the twilight of the grove. It feels like mercy to lie down next to her on the rough terrycloth, to take her in his arms, to caress her damp skin and wind his fingers through her wet hair, slide his hand between her legs and hear her gasp, to be inside her as she straddles him, to cup her incredible tits in his hands and urge her toward her climax, to feel all her skin against his as he reaches his own point of no return, to hold her against his chest as they both come back slowly into the world, breathing hard but in sync.

"The attractions were definitely worth seeing," he tells her, and she chuckles into his throat.

He stays in town for two weeks. He and Sarah try out both his bed in the hotel and hers in her tiny house. He loves the look of glory on her face as she comes. He tries to see it as often as possible. He doesn't even think about Kara until he dreams about her, about being in bed with both of them, and he wakes up confused and hard to Sarah's sleepy smile and willing body. Sam buys a pair of running shoes and they run out to the swimming hole together every night for a quick dip that always turns into a lingering embrace on the heap of their discarded clothes. One night they pitch his tent just for fun and sit by a tiny campfire toasting marshmallows and listening to the night sounds before coming up with some night sounds of their own. He thinks about staying. He's getting old for the game anyway. Right now he can keep up with the fresh-out-of-college kids, but he knows he doesn't have a lot of years left. He could just not go back, have his stuff shipped here, find an apartment in town, build a house, get another couple of dogs. But she looks at him one night and says, "Sam, your life isn't over yet", and he knows he has to leave.

"Maybe I'll stop by the next time I'm in town," he offers.

"You should," she says, but they both know that this is the last night. In another life, it might have worked. In another life, they might have fallen in love and raised tall beautiful children with an interest in the workings of things. In this one, he's still not whole enough to do her justice. They get progressively incredibly drunk and have sex in all five rooms of her house, making every moment count, desperate as teenagers. She kisses him and his searing hangover goodbye in the morning. The bike is gassed up and ready to go and he has no excuse to wait any longer. She leans into him, almost toppling him off the bike, her kiss a promise that life goes on.

"See you around," he tells her.

"Sure," she says. This time her smile is almost sad and doesn't get all the way to her blue eyes.

He wants to look back, but he won't let himself. He peels out of town at exactly the speed limit, squinting in the sun. He checked the map before they broke out the tequila. He knows where he's going now. He'll take the back roads for a ways and then get onto the highway and make time home to Phoenix. People are starting to worry, according to his messages. He even had a few irritated voicemails from Kara, saying that his agent had called her seventeen times already and so had the team manager and what the fuck did he think he was doing and oh, she hoped he was okay.

It's too fucking bright out. The glare off the blacktop hurts his eyes wherever the light can actually get through the trees. His head thuds with a dull rhythm all its own. The silence inside his skull is too loud. All he wants to do is sleep in a bed with cool sheets until this all goes away, or nurse some coffee at his own damn table in his own damn kitchen in Phoenix, where there's a ready supply of ibuprofen and ice water. Suddenly something darts out of the trees across the road in front of him, so fast it's just a brown blur, and he slams on the bike's brakes. The Ducati handles it fine but the quick shift makes him nauseous and he leans over too far and heels right over, the bike sliding off the road into the grass. It's a damn heavy piece of machinery, but between the storage boxes and the handlebars, there's enough room underneath it that he hits the ground hard but isn't trapped under the bike. He wriggles away from it, grass and mud everywhere. Thank any god who's watching that he's wearing his leathers - they got scraped up in the gravel on the shoulder of the road, but the only ache he feels is a throb in his shoulder from trying to haul it back up mid-fall.

"Fuck," he says, shaky with adrenaline, somehow on his feet again. "Fuck." He just stands there trembling for a couple of minutes, no sense to do anything but kill the ignition. "Fuck," he says again to the landscape absolutely devoid of any other life. Whatever the brown blur was, he didn't hit it, at least. He takes three deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

"Goddammit," he tells the trees. "Pull it together, Anders. At least now you really know you want to fucking live."

He rights the bike. It's scraped all down the side, but it starts up with as sweet a purr as ever when he touches the ignition. The storage boxes are intact and nothing seems to have been knocked out of alignment. He wishes he could go back and get Sarah to look it over - the couple of times he watched her work, it seemed like she had a rapport with the machines, like her hands remembered her origins, communicating with metal and silicon. But she isn't here, and he has to move on. He'll stop early tonight and give himself some rest. He'll find a nice hotel. He'll buy some food with nutritional value. He'll run himself a hot bath and ease his aching muscles into it. Even if he doesn't hurt now, he'll hurt later. But he's feeling again. He's thinking through more than getting through the next ten minutes again.

"None of this will happen again," he murmurs, his new mantra, and points the Ducati home.


End file.
